#nutmegstories

This world is dying. The air is filled with filth, rain turned acidic, oceans filled with debris, more and more beautiful animals die out every year, there’s hardly any ground left that isn’t covered in concrete or has been torn up for crops. All of it in the name of the humans greed. they’re like parasites, latching on to this beautiful world, sucking it dry of life and beauty and filling it instead with poison. 

There are some sanctuaries left though, as of yet unknown and untouched by the filth of the humans greed. Me and my people the Dryads keep these sanctuaries safe. The trees gave us life and so in turn do we keep them alive. 

I am alone in my forest. Our people once lived in small groups in the largest of forests, but now there is hardly enough space for one, perhaps two to live side by side. Though I may not have a sister living alongside me anymore I am not entirely alone. My forest is lush and busy with life, from the tiniest mites, to the mightiest bears. I protect these creatures who give my forest life. They are busy creatures, with intricate, fascinating, lives, and when the time comes they all give back to the life of the forest. I treasure these strange beautiful creatures, but today I am on the hunt.

There is fire amongst my trees today. Screaming burning heat consumes the tip of my smallest finger as my bark there begins to smoulder. This is not the devastating uncontrolled burn of a wildfire come to sweep my lands and scorch my body, but a small deliberate thing. At least it is contained, but I know what this means. My precious forest is under attack, it has contracted _humans_, they always crave fire. A sister once told me of a tale she had heard, she says that humans loved fire so dearly that they stole it from their own gods. They love it so much that they invite it into their cold dead homes to bring them some semblance of warmth, of light. That they make devices so they can breathe the ashes from their precious fire. That in the end they often choose to let the flames take their bodies instead of letting the earth reclaim them. Such selfish things are humans, such stupid things. And now they were in my forest, at the very tips of my land, but still, I know all too well how fast the infection of humans can spread. I still wear the scar across my cheek from the last humans who dared to enter my lands, clearing away my trees to... do whatever it is humans do. I still have not yet healed from that time, but I survive, my forest survives, unlike the humans who had harmed us, unlike the stupid one lighting fires in my fingertips.

It takes me mere hours to travel through my roots and arrive at the outskirts of this human camp. Fire blazing bright, but at least it is contained by stone, the human so far nowhere in sight. There’s probably only one, at most three. I can usually feel them, an awful creeping in my flesh when too many walk across my soils. There’s not enough here to do that now, it’s almost frustrating that there aren’t more, at least then I could know exactly where they are.

I could destroy their little camp, leave them without shelter as the night closes in, let the creatures of my forest take them in the dark. I could lay a trap for them perhaps, or hunt them down, but... but there’s something... different. I can’t recognize the taste of it, what it means, this difference, can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from, and I find myself curious. I decide to find out what it is.

I let myself become a part of the trees, let my toes become roots, my hair become leaves, let the remainder of my flesh become bark and vines, and I settle in to watch. A few hours pass before the human arrives back to their camp, barely a blink in the time of the trees. I think it’s a woman, and she seems to be alone. I watch as she busies herself about the camp, using her fire to clean the water that her people have polluted, to cook the roots of my plants that she has found. I watch as she sets small clear tubes carefully in a case, scribbling in a device as she does. I watch as she bends my branches and gathers my fallen leaves into a shelter to hold her safe for the night. Watch as she checks her fire, placing more stones about it to keep it safe. How curious, she seems to be trying to disturb my forest as little as possible, perhaps she knows I’m here and is hoping to avoid my attentions, but then again, perhaps not.

The next day I follow her deeper into my lands, she seems to know how to avoid the more gruesome creatures my forest houses, and I feel a slight disappointment that they may not have the satisfaction of cleansing this parasite from me. As she travels, she stops occasionally to take things from me, from my soil, my branches, my moss, my flowers, and seal them away in her tiny clear tubes, always scribbling on her device as she goes. I wonder what she hopes to accomplish by stealing such things from me. As the day grows old, again she seeks out a place to set up her camp, again building a small fire, and lighting my wrist aflame. She leaves to scour the lands around her camp, scavenging for more roots and berries. At least she doesn’t seem inclined to hunt my creatures for either food or game. 

The days pass much the same and I wonder what has come over me, why I haven’t crushed this trespasser yet. I know she will likely bring more humans to her in time, I know that her presence here means only death, and yet. And yet I find her fascinating. She hasn’t left a trail of destruction as I have come to expect from her people, she hasn’t hunted, or even scavenged more than she needs for each day, she seems to have been almost respectful of my lands so far. She makes me so very curious. What is it that she wants if not to destroy, is that not the sole purpose of humans? To consume and leave nothing but waste and carnage in their wake? Why then is she causing no more of a stir in my forest than any of my other creatures? What is it that she wants?

The days pass and I follow her close behind, I notice that he seems to have a clear location in mind as she travels further and further in towards my scarred lands. Perhaps she seeks to see the destruction her predecessors left behind. I find myself casually turning away the more vicious of my creatures from her path, keeping her clear of confrontation for now. I tell myself it is just so I can discover what her purpose here is, nothing more. The creatures can take her when my curiosity is satisfied. 

A few more days and she has come quite close now to the great scar her people left me. Today there is something different. I watch from within the trees as she goes about her routine, setting up camp, gathering food, collecting water. This time she takes one of her tiny clear tubes and holds it tight in her palm, she takes her time scribbling away in her device before sitting at the edge of the water. She stays there for a long while and I wonder if the silly thing could have fallen asleep right there. After a time she does move again, packing up her little clear tube and gathering what water she will need for the night and her travels tomorrow. This time I notice she does not use the fire to cleans the water before drinking, perhaps she has stopped caring about the pollution, perhaps she as accepted the poison her people have created. No, that’s not like her. I spend the rest of that night searching myself, feeling the roots of the trees about the stream where she had sat, feel them drinking in the water, feel the new sweetness of it. The ease with which my trees, my bodies, take in this water. What did she do? Usually it takes my trees time to process the water here, to cleanse it of its toxins, but now. How is it that this water tastes so sweet? So clean?

The next day I watch her with renewed interest, curiosity burning as she travels the last stretch to my scar. As usual, she collects small samples of my forest, placing them neatly in her case, scribbling away on her device. Nothing else has changed yet, I am sure to pay attention to everything she touches now, to how it feels after she has been there. Nothing feels as different as the water in the stream had yesterday, but. But there is something, wherever this woman touches feels... somehow lighter, less burdened, less polluted. I must know what she is doing, what she has done to me. I must learn her secretes. I must know how to cleanse my earth, my waters, my trees. I must learn how to heal.

It’s late in the day when she arrives at the edge of my scar, and the change in her is instant. I watch as the unthinking smile I’ve grown so fond of falls from her lips. As her too bright eyes fill and overflow with tears. As her fragile body falls to its knees, folding up and trembling with great heavy sobs. She is mourning, I realize. Mourning the loss of my trees, Mourning the devastation left behind by her people. She stays like that for a long time, too long.Sshe has yet to collect what she needs to survive the night. No food, no water, no shelter. Surely if left she may now perish. No, this place has already seen too much death, felt too much loss, and tonight it shall see no more. I step out from the trees, letting my body reform itself with flesh and blood mingling with my bark and sap and leaves. I gather roots, and berries, and small sweet fruits. collecting leaves and weaving them to fashion a bowl, pooling my stores of water into it. I bend the branches of the trees around me, calling on vines and leaves to twist in and form a shelter for the mourning girl, leaving the rest of my gifts inside. It is foolish to do this I know, once she sees my gifts she will know of my existence, I am endangering all of my people in doing so, and yet, I cannot leave her to perish this night.

Night comes and the clear sky above us fills with glittering stars. The girl has yet to move and I fear for the worst. Can humans die of staying still? I had never considered it before, but they always seem to be moving when I see them, this one has not moved in hours. Midnight comes and my worry and curiosity drive me to do the unthinkable, I step out into the clearing, out of my sheltering trees, out of their safety, out of hiding, into the bare space of dead trunks. I approach the huddled form of the woman and as I grow closer I begin to feel it, the small trickle of power seeping from her. I see her hand rests gently on the cut trunk of a dead tree, and see that beneath her palm a new sapling has begun to sprout. I reach up tentatively to my cheek and feel the reluctance of my scar begin to give way to new life. I feel the tears of joy begin to roll down my cheeks and I step forward again, closing the distance between me and the woman. I reach out to rest my hand upon her shoulder and she gently turns to me smiling. 

“You’re still here” she says to me in a voice of honey and nectar “I had feared they may have destroyed your ebwyn”. She knows of my mother tree? Knows perhaps of my people? Who is this woman, she feels human, and she has the craving of fire just like the others, but she possesses knowledge I was certain no human would, and a power, such power. I shake my head, feeling my leaves rustle as I do and reach up again to the scar that adorns my cheek “I live” I say. She stands and again I see the mourning in her heart, the shame in her eyes “I’m sorry, I hate what we are doing to this world, all we do is destroy, I’m so sick of it. So I left, they all thought I was crazy but I knew you existed, because I exist, I learnt to use my gift, to heal, like this” she kneels down again to the new sapling sprouting from the once dead trunk “I knew I could really _do_ something here you know? and my research showed there was something else here too, you I expect. And I learnt what pollution there was here. And you know, if I concentrate just right I can make it better, even the stream water was drinkable” she is beaming now, and babbling, I never realized humans spoke so much, but her voice is lovely, and the light in her eyes grows brighter as she speaks. I want to hear more, to watch that light grow. 

She cleansed my waters, and healed my tree. Perhaps not all humans need killing after all, if she even is a human “what are you?” I ask. “oh” she says “I’m a scientist, and a witch, sort of, I guess, well trying to be any way. My names Erin, what’s yours?”. I reach out to her and as she takes my hand I show her, I show her the feeling of my roots in the earth, the leaves of my tallest trees rustling in the wind, of the pumping sap within my trunks, of the rushing streams, and bustling bugs, and living creatures. I show her my ebwyn, my mother tree, my heart of hearts, flowing with all the life of my forest, and in it a new bright spark that this woman has given me. “This is who I am” I tell her “welcome, Scientist Witch Erin, welcome to my Forrest”.

By NutMegTales

Our clan was once great. Once, they were strong, feared, and numbered into the hundreds. Before the great demon wars that is. Many of my ancestors died during the great wars, defending our lands from invasion, wiping out clans of other demons, burning and scarring the land until it was unrecognisable. The wars wiped out many clans, many species were lost, and history was made. Eventually truces were called and a tense peace came about. Years passed and slowly the great demon clans began to die out, including the blood demons, my people.

As the years passed the short-lives of our world forgot much about the great wars, writing them in their books, turning them into fables and bedtime stories for their young ones. They forgot about our clans, telling their children we were just myths. But we have not forgotten those times.

Our elders, the few who survived the wars, pass on their knowledge to hatchlings of our clan, passing their blood to our mothers, imprinting the memories of violence and betrayal that decimated our clan to the small number we have now.

Our people were slowly dying out. Our elders who used to number well above fifty were reduced to only four, our leaders, amongst which were my mother and father, reduced to merely seven. The rest of our people, numbered only twenty, of which three were hatchlings, including me.

During my first five years of life, I was taught how to handle hunting weapons, how to stalk my prey without being seen, I was taught the history of my clans, and how to remember memories that were not mine. In my fifth year I began my training in blood magic.

I was the middle child of the hatchlings. My elder Blóma was already reaching maturity, she was 20 years my senior. The younger Vindur was hatched three years after me. I was by no means talented in any of my disciplines, and Blóma always made sure I knew it too. To her I was always laughably slow, especially when it came to magic, but Vindur always looked up to me, he was good fun to study with, even if he was not yet old enough to hunt with. I always looked forward to the day I could take him with me on a scouting mission or even a hunt, and show him all I had learned, and maybe even teach him some. He was the closest I had to a brother.

Sometimes I was filled with trepidation and anxiety for when Vindur grew old enough to join us on hunts though. Since his hatching the clan of demons in the mountain peaks above our home have grown restless. We learn early to be weary of the dark ones in the mountain tops. The elders tell us that the dark ones were once blood demons, not unlike ourselves, who wandered too far from the clan and their morals, who sold away their families in favour of power, and who would not hesitate to steal away unwary children to the mountain tops where they would be forced to be servants to the dark ones until death, or worse.

I’ve seen a dark one up in the mountains before, hunting for the goats that scale the mountains so nimbly. They are a hard game to hunt, and I saw the dark ones skill as he took down his prey. Recently they have been coming further and further down the mountains, closer to our territory. Sometimes the leaders and scouts report seeing them as far as our forests. For the moment they didn’t seem to pose a threat, though our elders grew wary, and my parents and the other leaders began to press Blóma, Vindur, and I to learn protection and concealment spells. I never was very good at them, but with practice my skill became adequate.

Since the great wars our species numbers have suffered far more than that of the other clans. We may live longer than most, but we mature slower, and it is not often that two children are hatched to the same couple. Only one of the surviving elders recalled a couple that was blessed with two hatchlings surviving to maturity. It came as a shock to us all when my mother fell pregnant a second time.

I found myself excited beyond compare to have a sibling of my own, someone I could teach and protect, someone who would look up to me as Vindur sometimes did. The elders told me it would be my sworn duty as the first born, to protect my sibling with my life, and I was ready to. I felt my power shifting as my sibling egg grew. The patterns that swirled across my skin began to glow with new energy, grow new depth and power. The elders told me it was my body maturing my magic, so I would be ready to protect my new family. It thrilled me to know my sibling could cause such a change in me, and excited me to think that maybe I could strengthen them in turn.

My mother began to change too, I’d seen this once before when Vindur was growing. My mother, like his, began to crave the blood of magical beings. She became restless and would talk of nothing but strengthening her growing egg. I wondered if she had been like this with me. In the old times, before the wars, our mothers would feed on the blood of magical beings to infuse their power with the growing child, but in recent years this practice has been forbidden by the elders.

A few weeks passed before any other change happened. I came home from my lessons to find my father arguing with an elder, their tempers only increased as I came to stand by my father. The elder was yelling that our family was a disgrace, that we had put the clan’s lives in danger. My father was adamant that they had done nothing wrong, that all they were doing was what our ancestors had done to ensure the strength of our children. Thankfully the argument ended when my mother began to lay. I did not know until months after that the argument was started because mother had decided to hunt and feed from a number of magical beings. Nothing seemed to be wrong to me though, they had ensured not to kill anyone, no one came for revenge and mother and her egg had not been hurt. I was yet to understand the true consequences of my mother’s actions.

It would be a full year before my sibling hatched, their body developing to that of a child, their mind being primed through memories from our elders, my family, and the blood that my mother had taken. I couldn’t wait to meet them. Unlike the small infants I’ve seen of other species, who seemed stupid and fragile, my sibling would already know most of our language, and be ready to learn to walk, and run, and fly, and it would not be long before we could play and learn together.

We were to call them Máttar, power, I loved the name, we would together be vörður and Máttar, guard and power. I was so ready to meet them.

Things started to change then, one of our elders died, two more disappeared along with three of our leaders and eight of our other clan members, one of which was Blóma. I found her myself, her body desecrated in our forest, I did not see who had done this to her, but the elder and remaining leaders assured me it was the dark ones. Vindur and I were forbidden from entering the forest again, and our clan members began guarding my sibling egg day and night. Everything was falling apart, I spent my days practising protection spells and my nights guarding my sibling. Time seemed to pass slower than ever and I lived in dread of who would die next.

I’ve never really been one to interact with the humans much personally. They’re all so loud, so destructive, so selfish. However, many of my siblings have found their place on earth among these people. There’s angels for just about everything now, for fire, for ice, for mobile phones, and those funny little cotton swabs on sticks. There’s an angel for just about every major animal you can think of, personally I fin the ones for insects rather… Strange. Some of us have traded in our wings for tails to sim in the deep oceans, or swapped out our halos for hats and wigs to walk among the humans unnoticed.

They say the old gods are dead, and mostly that’s true enough, but what they never mention is that where gods fail, Angels pick up the slack. Gods are things of belief you see, stop believing in a god and they’re as real as Fake News. See what I did there? I’ve even started picking up some of the human’s new slang. But Angels? Well it takes a lot more than just not believing in us to get rid of us. We’re here for the long haul so to speak. Most of us believe that seeing as we’re here to stay we might as well pick our thing and stick to it. They tell me you’ve gotta be an angel of something, and you know, recently I’m starting to understand what they mean.

I’ve always been a flyer you know? I mean, if the gods bestow upon you the gift of flight, you may as well fly and all that. Recently the humans have once again laughed in the face of their gods. They were not given the gift of flight, but does that stop them? Ha! No, no it does not. The first time I met one of their giant metal birds it damn near tore me out of the skies themselves the damn thing. I was so shocked, they say I didn’t shut up about it for years, though I suppose I never really have shut up about it yet. I ended up following it around the sky for hours before it landed, and Lo and behold when it did land out came two cheering humans.

That was the very first time I found myself understanding a human, or that I ever thought that perhaps a human could understand me. They too loved these skies, they to sought to feel the rushing icy air between their feathers, metal or otherwise. They, perhaps, weren’t so awful after all. I mean what being could possibly love these skies and still be awful.

As the years passed they developed their flying machines. I met a few of their early engineers hovering over shoulders as blueprints were drawn, gifting inspiration as the small hours of the day drew in, lending energy to tired hands and tired minds so that this next model may yet be better than the last. I followed the small humans whose passion for flight drove them into the cockpits of these metal birds, so brave, to be so sure that something so heavy could ever soar on the wind. I saved as many as I could, turning turbulent skies peaceful, willing their tiny rivets and screws to hold, keeping birds out of their flight paths. I wasn’t always successful, but the humans had such spirit, they never stopped trying.

Soon enough my skies were filled with these soaring beasts, wars were waged in my skies, many pilots met their end flying through the clouds. During these times, I became far too familiar with one of the very few remaining gods. Hades, as he says, will never want for belief, everyone eventually believes in death. I think it’s rather a point of pride for him and his wife, who herself still viciously demands belief from the people of this earth. Spring and winter, ice and fire, fruit and flower, honey and nectar, they all belong to her. Quite the pair they are, life and death themselves. I also met many of my siblings during these times, the Angels of death, come to ease the passing from this mortal land. I do not envy their task, I myself consider I have already born witness to far too much death, I cannot ever hope to imagine the strength my siblings must have to carry out their tasks.

With war, however, came innovation. The humans excelled at making more machines to grace my skies, all different types. Tiny little things, so aerodynamic, so agile, so fast, they could travel around the world in hardly any time at all. Then there came the goliaths, massive beasts of airships, holding in their guts cargo as large as houses, fitting within themselves scores of smaller flyers. It was truly incredible to see the diversity these people could create. Now if only it wasn't diversity they were using my skies to wage war on, but then humans will be humans.

Now I have found a place of my own, it's called an ‘airport’. This is where planes land to rest, where they are kept and maintained, where young humans come to learn about my skies. Where people congregate and board planes that will take them across the world, all these people choosing to travel in my skies. Many people are terrified. I understand. I've seen enough of the carnage they can encounter in these machines to know their fear is warranted. I try to ease their minds as much as I can, touching their hearts to bring reassurance. It's been many years since any plane from this airport has had issues thanks to my intervention. All the engineers are well rested when they work on my planes, all the pilots alert and filled with my passion for flight. No plane has ever taken off from my airport with any issue that could ever cause their boarded people harm. They even changed the name of the place to Angel Airlines. That was truly an honour, though I know the people don't know of my existence.

Keeping these people and this airport safe though has become more difficult recently with the new change of owner. Though he had ultimately been behind the change of name, that doesn't excuse the other changes he has instigated. Pay cuts all round, longer working hours, less benefits, shorter breaks, and lower quality food. I even had to stop a man with allergies enjoying an unmarked dinner containing peanuts the other day. Nearly all the food is wasted now. He even made it against the airlines policy for the staff to take leftovers, probably in case they made their way to somewhere useful like a shelter. One of my siblings had words with me about that one; their shelter had been relying on the few employees here that gathered up the best of the leftovers after each shift. There's not too much I could really do though. People are people and as long as my planes are safe, I told myself I would not interfere.

This though, this is the last straw. I will not have planes from my airport flying broken. I. Will. Not. Allow It. I could hardly do anything as one of the engines blew out, just calm the panicked mind of the pilot, keep the heart of an unwell passenger pumping as the pilot, bless him, managed a rough but lifesaving emergency landing. The passenger held out until the emergency people came for them, and aside from some minor bumps and bruises everyone was safe in the end. My plane however, was ruined. He had allowed this, had caused this, with his corner cutting, his disrespect and disregard for my planes, for my people. He had done this and by the gods, dead and alive, he is going to fix it.

We are not supposed to show ourselves to people, an agreement all of my siblings had made. We are to stay in the background of things, unseen, unheard, only ever guiding, never leading. It makes sense, it made sense, but now I cannot stand by my agreement. I cannot stay in the background as this man dismantles my airport, I will not.

It takes mere minutes to return to my airport after the crash, after I've ensured my people are safe. Planes may be fast now, but they are nothing compared to an Angels speed, and I use my agility in full for the first time in many many years. This man must pay. My rage fills the hanger as I land and I feel the people around me react to it subtly, a small change in their demeanour, no longer casually polite but instead unthinkingly cruel. That I will have to deal with later. I storm past them hoping they will be relieved of my persuasion as my presence grows distant. I find my way quickly to the obnoxiously large office in which I know the head of the airport resides. I take a moment to steel my heated rage into cold fury before opening the door. I close it behind me and let my glamour fade, revealing my true form as I step forward, slamming my fists onto the desks and watching as the office chair turns away from the large window overlooking my airport.

As it turns, I begin my tirade "you! You complete and utter bastard! You imbecile, you moron, you, you, you douche bag!” Before I can even really release some of my pent up anger the man turns to me calmly, and smiling says "An angel with a potty mouth, I guess there is a first for everything". A Demon, he's a fucking demon, of course he is, of course. It's so obvious. They're everywhere on earth, mostly in politics and large corporations, but with a company as successful as mine I should have known it was only a matter of time. My rage renewed as I continue "you demon!” The man merely smirks and extending a hand replies "guilty as charged, the names Mike, a pleasure to meet you I'm sure".

I hear the pictures on the wall begin to shake as my anger rolls off me in waves, and between gritted teeth, I hiss "get out of my airport". Genuine surprise lights Mike's face as he replies "oh? No I think you'll find in fact, that this airport belongs to me, and come now". Mike stands and walks to a gently shaking table with a kettle and mugs lightly rattling on top, he pours us both something and holds one out. He can't honestly expect me to take anything from a demon can he? When I don't take it, he sets it down on the desk in front of me before continuing "it's not as though I've actually done anything wrong you know".

The mug in front of me shatters and a dark steaming liquid pools into the carpet below, littered with shards. "Haven't done.... HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG??? You nearly killed a dozen people, on my aeroplane today. Get out, get out of my airport right now!". I shout and the pictures fall from their hooks on the walls and shatter on the ground, mingling their glass in with the shards of broken pottery on the now soggy carpet. I can feel my chest heaving and my wings twitching in agitation. I haven't been so furious since the last time I watched a plane be shot down. Mike just shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink before saying "no. I only did all this for you anyway".

Shock hits me and I falter confused "for m-me... What?” Mike beams at me and clicks his fingers, the debris from my outburst fixing itself in an instant, the pictures mending themselves and returning to their hooks, my mug now gently steaming again in front of me. I resist the urge to just smash it all again, that would be petty. "Of course", there's a gentleness to Mike’s voice that seems so out of place coming from him, coming from a demon. "Well flattery didn't work, and neither did bribery, and I so thought you'd like that new hanger too. All" he gestures with his arms never spilling a drop from the mug still grasped in one hand, fingers closed just a little too tight "bright and clean and angelic, you know, I even bought you three new planes to fill it with". "The Wings of Light? That was you?" I find myself asking. He beams at me and nods, his vice grip on the mug relaxing a little at the acknowledgment.

"Of course" he sighs sitting back in his chair and taking another sip, "and of course, it wasn't until the violence started that you started taking notice". I reach out and take a sip of my own drink before setting it back down with a grimace "tastes like carpet". Mike laughs and walks back over to the table and brews a new drink saying "of course now we can actually get this place back up and running again properly now. Finally, it was practically killing me you know, stunting the place like this. Really if you'd just come to see me sooner".

The new drink tastes of chocolate; it's far nicer than carpet "what in the skies are you on about. You want my airport to run well? Why?". "Our airport" Mike corrects "and because, believe it or not, demons need hobbies too, it's all well and good hanging around hell for all eternity indulging in the greatest of sins, but it's not like Hades Town you known? You start to miss people, demons can be so.... Boring". I take my seat and take another sip of my drink, it's actually rather lovely "why then didn't you just... Say something to me? Instead of doing all this?" I gesture to the window which I notice is in fact overlooking the new hanger that is indeed currently housing the three brand new air cruisers, the Wings of Light.

Mike shakes his head sadly "I would have given you them anyway you know, but it's in the rules really, 'no demon on earth may willingly reveal her or his or its identity to any persons of an angelic nature, else may they lose all powers of hell and indeed cease entirely to exist.' A real bummer that'd be you know so... I improvised. Now whaddya say partner? Shall we get this place back up to scratch?". I hesitate a moment before grasping his hand, I know a passion for planes in a soul when I see one, even a soul as dark as Mike's. But then really, what being could possibly love these skies and still be awful.

By NutMegTales for @asdfjasklfjdkla

They called her Persephone, she called herself spring. They should have known better, they should have realised that names have power here, they should have known that a story as old as theirs would have to be told. They should have known.

The Lord came late in the term, he turned the leaves brown, and gave the flowers rest, he watched as she danced in the color of Autumn, with flowers in her hair, honey on her lips, and nectar upon her finger tips. He saw her there dancing, and he knew of love.

She went wandering during the break, frost under heel, and heavy clouds above. She saw him there, dancing amongst the snow, bringing peace to the creatures who could not last the cold. A crown upon his head, spirits held in comfort and a hound at his heels. She saw him there dancing, and she knew of love.

She came back at the start of term they say, and with her came spring. She wore a crown upon her head, delicate and beautiful, with vines and flowers and seeds woven in. They find each-other each autumn, dancing in the leaves. They say you can see them still dancing in the winter frost, sweet Persephone and her Lord Hades.

By NutMegTales

Another story for @elsewhereuniversity

Loosely Inspired by this Album

Liked This story? read my other Elsewhere Stories (Links bellow)

If you wandered around elsewhere long enough you might see the statues. Never in the same place twice, and you could never be sure if they're striking the same pose. They are things of beauty, true master peices. Something not to be defiled.

Do. Not. Graffiti.

No one ever puts up the signs, they'd spend their whole day trying to find the statues to put them up in the right place. They just appear, as smoothly as the statues themselves. Suddenly there, where before there was nothing but space. The signs, if you care to look at them properly, appear to be grwon more than made. No seals, no joins, no screws or lines in the paint. In Some indefinable way they seem very organic.

Do not graffiti.

Head this warning well.

Do. Not. Graffiti.

Some students find themselves drawn to the presence of the statues, and will often be found near by. More often than not you will see these few near the statues, if you see the statues at all. I don't think even they know how they find the statues.

Do not graffiti.

They will all tell you the same thing if they see you approaching the imposing posing figures.

Really don't graffiti.

The Lady often spends some time visiting the statues during her weeks. She enjoys the slow dance they all seem to be doing across the campus. She watches closely as some seem to recruit students as unwitting partners in their slow as seasons walts. She always enjoys finding a new member addaded to the dance, a new stone beauty that would not heed the warnings.

Do not graffiti.

By NutMegTales

Another story for @elsewhereuniversity

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It had been a week since Ash and Ace had met, a week of changes mostly. Ace had told Ash many of the stories of elsewhere, including some of what she hoped were the worst of them. That had opened her eyes, even more than Kat’s gift had really. If nothing else, she now knew some of what she was seeing and how to deal with it.

The creatures covered in fur, and claws, and feathers, and bone that played across the river she’d found were called Gnarlers. They were happy enough to be left alone playing by the river and didn’t seem too interested in her or the other students. Ash did notice though, that the few times a member of the elsewhere came to them they would swarm, hackles raising and emitting a dark unhappy brown and red and blue meld of color that apparently only her eyes could see. They would settle back down again once the member of the elsewhere had gone, or if they were offered what seemed to Ash to be gifts of interesting stones that glowed with the faintest of sky blue. The wind chimes she could hear at night were slowly coming back, weaving themselves into the eaves of her cottage like webs filled with tiny tinkling gems that would make the most lovely chime when blown on. One of the books from the cottage shelves said they grow in the presence of hope, and that once fully formed would yield a harvest of precious gems that could be used for…something. The text had been unclear and didn’t seem to want to be read. Ash had set the text aside for some more serious reading later. Kat had become a regular companion again, usually preferring to be curled up somewhere comfortable in the same room as her, or trailing just within sight if she was walking outside.

Class had been a bit of a surprise the first time she’d gone back again, but of course she realised she should have recognised those eyes in the boy that had sat with her, of course it had been Kat. He sat with her through every class now. Ash often wondered how he managed it really, she never saw him changing just one moment he was Kat the cat, the next he was… passing for human. Class itself had changed some too. Apparently, Ace had been busy gossiping to his gambling mates about her. Of course he had, it was Ace after all, but whatever he was saying about her mustn’t be so bad as some of the other students would sit with her now. The students that did brave sitting at her table made it a point to avoid Kat’s gaze but would always make an effort to include Ash when they could.

The cakes had been a pleasant surprise too. Ash had waited day after day for them to finally go stale but every morning she would try one and, to her mounting delight, it would be just as fresh as the morning she made them. Ash decided though on the third day to leave them out by her front door, even if they did keep forever she had baked far too many for just herself. On the fourth day she added a sign to the basket of cakes reading “freely given”. On the fifth day she added another sign reading “or for exchange, please leave items here” and put a small box next to the basket. Finally then the cakes had started to go. She’d collected some interesting things from the exchange box, some salt packets and little knickknacks and trinkets which she’d been expecting, but there were also a few items she had not been counting on. Teeth, for instance… lots, and lots, of teeth. There were also a few pressed and dried flowers that smelled like cotton candy, a feather that was tipped with tiny silver spikes at the end of each barb, and a whole speckled eggshell that glowed with the same light blue as the stones the Gnarlers liked.

Yesterday Ace had visited her again and a friend of his had come by before he’d gone. To Ash’s surprise, she had come asking for help. Ace had told her about their encounter with Big T and how the bracelet had seemed to lead them to safety. She wanted Ash to make her one. It turned out a member of the gentry had abducted her girlfriend a few days earlier and she had tried all she could to bargain her life back. After her attempts at making deals had failed, she planned to go in guns blazing to retrieve her beloved and wanted as many tricks up her sleeve she could manage to try and get them both back safe.

Ash had taken time on this bracelet, weaving the feather and some of the teeth into the design amongst the bones and river stones until it had felt just right and glowed in her hand. She hoped it would work. The girl had insisted on giving her something in return and had taken out one of the studs that decorated her ears. It had a small stone clutched in tiny iron claws, her great grandma had made just a hand full of them, and they’d been handed down through the generations. It had felt wrong to take the thing from her, but Ash was coming to know that at Elsewhere University all gifts were debts unpaid, and debts unpaid were a dangerous thing indeed.

By NutMegTales

Read the full story so far here 

Liked This story? read my other Elsewhere Stories (Links bellow)

Don’t you know not to stray from the path little one? The terrors that await you are second to none You’ll be lost in their world under a foreign sun They’ll make you run and run and run They’ll keep you there for their own twisted fun Your precious life will be bought and won Don’t look back now, for what’s done is done Take to your heals and run and run Don’t look back, just run Just run.

By NutMegTales

Another story for @elsewhereuniversity

Liked This story? read my other Elsewhere Stories (Links bellow)

Truly it is only a fool who believes dreams are just dreams when living so close to the Elsewhere. And fools can only survive so long in such a place.

Ash stared into the eyes of the creature now stood before her. It was, of course, her. But its hair was like silk drifting in the breeze and its eyes were wrong, or rather, a different kind of wrong. Where there should have been the brilliance of her wrong eyes like dancing light, there was instead darkness. A darkness so unfathomably deep Ash could feel herself being enveloped by it, plunging her deeper into the dream.

Dream it said in a whisper that made Ash’s skin crawl, and caused her to redouble her vice like grip on The Lady’s gift basket. Her last anchor to the reality she felt was fast slipping away. ‘Spider’, she thought briefly before her attention turned to the sound that had been gently building to a searing hiss.

Ash watched, jaw clenched tight and throat seized with fear, as the razor wire strummed past her head, now frighteningly, undeniably real. Oh God’s she thought. She was alone now, watching in this near empty darkness as the wire passed her by, whispering, screaming, teasing of how it would feel to reach out and let it dance beneath her skin. Ash looked toward the horizon to where she could just make out a growing silhouette; an inevitability that she had hoped in vain would not be here this time. Oh fuck. She watched as it grew closer and closer until finally the great willow tree stood before her, just beyond her reach. From here she could see where beneath the Boeing branches the wire had wrapped itself around and around and around the great trunk, biting deep into the bark. Sap oozed from the wounds that Ash knew would only continue to grow deeper. And beneath them there she saw the next inevitability of this dream that she had avoided for so long. The hollow at the base of the trunk was dark, it seemed almost empty, but Ash knew it would not be. It drew her in, calling to her every cell. Ash allowed herself to be pulled in, letting the cold empty darkness claim her. Please. Next she knew would be pain, the splitting migraine and aching limbs as she falls screaming out of bed, it was the next inevitability. But when Ash opened her eyes she was not back in her room, she was instead within the gloom of the hollow. Shock hit her as Ash took in the size of the space she was now in. The darkness was punctuated by the outlines of hundreds of smaller trees, and as Ash’s eyes adjusted she saw that they were all… Her. Willowing branches laden with leaves forming hair atop wooden, living bodies. Ash stared in horror as they collectively looked to the ground at their feet and watched as their roots began to smoulder. They watched as their bodies were slowly engulfed in the fireless burning, air now filled with falling Ash, until the burn reached their necks. Then all eyes turned to meet Ash’s gaze. “Who are you?” she heard herself whisper, and took a suffocating sharp breath as they collectively answered. “We are you”. Ash swallowed hard, trying to push her heart back down from her throat “What are you?” She asked. Again, they responded as one “we are Ash”. The burn had reached their hair now, and the many thousands of leaves began to fall, blazing in the air. “What do you want?” asked Ash. “To Live” they responded “you must live”.

Firm hands gripped Ash as she gasped and felt her mind rise to consciousness. “That’s quite enough little one, you can’t let yourself be lost. The dream weaver won’t hesitate to make your dreams theirs if you let them.” Beyond The Lady Ash could see a large creature that could, in the wrong light, be mistaken for an enormous spider. Its eyes stared, unfathomably deep, and filled with glittering stars. “Use what you’ve learnt well my little between, you will need it” stated The Lady. “I will” said Ash breathlessly, feeling the tremor in her limbs reflected by her voice. She wasn’t entirely sure what it is she had learnt, but she would not have defied The Lady in this moment for anything. “Good” was all The Lady said. And then as suddenly as it had all happened, Ash was alone again, sitting just beyond the path to I9, accompanied only by a worried looking cat with definitely too many eyes.

By NutMegTales

Read the full story so far here

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